


The Long Game

by signifying_nothing



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Space Gays, This was supposed to be soft, and i mean i guess it is but it is also fucking not, mad love, the long slow fall into madness, unhealthy relationship, violence/insanity, waiting for spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:56:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signifying_nothing/pseuds/signifying_nothing
Summary: The two of them would always have one another. Superpowers. Space. War, violence and insanity and true, mad love.





	The Long Game

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write soft!rusame but apparently i am incapable  
> this is more about the evolution of their relationship than it is about anything else, but all you really need to know is that alfred is going insane and ivan is joining him on the ride and it's not going to end well for anyone (though this has a good ending.)

Ivan took in the sight of Alfred asleep in his bed and wished that things could always be this simple. Always just the two of them alone, no matter the circumstances.

Alfred had appeared on his doorstep the night before exhausted to the point of tears and shaking all over, begging to be let inside and of course Ivan let him in. It would have been easy to let him stay on the steps and crumple, but Ivan didn't want anyone else to notice and take advantage. Alfred was his to fight, his to kill. No one else deserved the privilege.

But Alfred had been in no state to fight the night before and he was in no state to fight now, his undereyes dark and his hair greasy, shadows on the curves of his ribs clearly visible, big knuckles swollen up almost comedically. Ivan reached to push back that messy hair and watched as Alfred flinched and jerked away—always expecting a blow, a fight, even in sleep. _Silly boy,_ Ivan thought to himself. _If I wanted you dead, I'd have killed you by now._

It would be easy. Alfred had given him so many opportunities over the years, up to and including when the two of them had been standing close to their bosses who each had one hand on the button and the other on a pen about to sign a peace treaty. The two of them were ever at odds as nations and as men but somehow they'd never really managed to kill one another properly. They'd beaten one another within inches of their lives. They'd stood back to back when Ludwig's bosses had lost their minds completely and forced him against the rest of the world. They'd once been the closest of friends. They'd chased one another up into the stars, brought out the worst each of them could offer and pushed one another to be _better._

Ivan almost missed those days.

He touched Alfred's cheek, watched as the flinch softened and then faded when the touch caused no pain and was reminded that this was the best way to get through to his violent, reactive counterpart. Patience and gentleness. Patience and gentleness and love would be Alfred's undoing and Ivan could wait. He could wait for the time when his actions finally wore Alfred down, when nothing he did was suspicious anymore. Then he would take Alfred, perhaps force him, make him his. Alfred would enjoy it, Ivan would make sure of that. His humiliation at the pleasure of being conquered so completely would be delicious but better than the conquering would be his realization that Ivan had no intention of subjugating Alfred, but standing on equal ground with him. Being one another's.

“You belong to me, zvyozdochka,” he whispered, and Alfred tipped his head into the pillow, body curled up tight under the heavy blankets against the biting Russian winter. He looked very small and helpless and Ivan longed for him to always look that way, tucked safe in his bed and away from prying eyes, away from the rest of the world. Ivan resented the other nations for their constant staring, their posturing, their threats. He did not like how they made Alfred feel.

That was why Alfred was in his bed that morning. It took no effort at all to know that Alfred had come from Arthur's home—the smell of English moss and tea had clung to his clothes, now washed and folded on the bedside vanity. Ivan could withstand many cruel words, but Alfred could not. Every statement cut deep, everything hurt him or healed him. He could never remain indifferent, and his relationship with Arthur as a man was still one of the worst, most unstable things about his life.

Even Ivan was a steadier presence than Arthur was. The two of them would always have one another. Superpowers. Space. War, violence and insanity and true, mad love.

Ivan rolled over, worked the blankets up and let himself lay between Alfred's long legs. The blond shifted beneath him and Ivan reached to pin his wrists down to the mattress before bending forward to press his mouth against one soft nipple, working it with his tongue until it hardened, until Alfred started to twist beneath him. Ivan set to work on the other, sucking softly before littering kisses across Alfred's pectorals, broad and strong despite his unhealthy thinness. His muscular development was, as always, incredibly healthy—a grotesque counterpoint to the immaturity of his mind, to the tender childishness of his emotions.

“Nn,” Alfred squirmed, and Ivan looked up as his blue eyes opened and were for a moment confused. Then his legs spasmed and opened further before clamping on either side of Ivan's hips. “What,” he started, before it was cut off by a soft moan. Ivan kissed Alfred's vulnerable neck, the tiny scar beneath his ear that had been the precursor to his revolutionary war, the whorl of scar tissue over his heart and shoulder where the great fires of Boston and Chicago had burned. Alfred's scars were the most sensitive part of his body and as Ivan kissed down the ugly, barely-smoothed mess of hard tissue down the center of Alfred's chest he was reminded of that. Alfred panted, pulled at his wrists and groaned when he couldn't get away. Perhaps he didn't want to. He wasn't trying very hard. Ivan knew that if Alfred wanted, he could throw Ivan from the bed and be beating his face in before Ivan would have proper time to react to the first blow, but here he was. Laid out on the bed with Ivan on top of him, moaning softly and tilting his head to look at Ivan with something like desperation until he was given a proper kiss—bruising, hard and still so sensual, deep and wet. Ivan felt Alfred's thighs tighten, felt his back arch up from the mattress and made a low sound of approval.

“Vahn,” Alfred breathed when they parted, his lips dark and bruised. “Shit.”

 _Vahn._ Because _Ivan_ was always too formal and _Vanya_ was sometimes too informal, the nickname was used by Alfred and Alfred alone—it did not make Ivan feel young or foolish as _Vanya_ sometimes did. Alfred was panting, staring up at Ivan through his limp hair and his eyes were so very, very blue.

“Yes, zvyozdochka?” he asked, unable to keep from smirking when Alfred's eyes rolled back and his chest pressed up, hips pushing down, wrists twisting. It was a weakness, really, the other's love of foreign language. Despite his inability to speak he comprehended fairly well and even when he had been a child—when he'd first introduced himself to Ivan under Catherine's watchful eye—the Russian language had fascinated him. He'd attempted to speak it and still did, on occasion. It was clumsy and endearing, especially when he got frustrated with himself. Sweet America knew so many languages that he could barely keep them straight and sometimes spoke in something like Esperanto, if Esperanto had been made up of every language an American knew.

“Shit,” Alfred hissed. Ivan bent to kiss his chin, the cut of his jaw and then his neck, laying his weight on top of the other nation, hearing Alfred gasp for breath and struggle to free his hands. He could feel Alfred's nude body, could feel his erection against the soft skin and hard muscle of his own belly. “S-shit, Vahn.”

“You are so hard,” Ivan breathed, enjoying the way Alfred squirmed and pushed up against him in a slow rhythm, struggling to move his body under Ivan's much more significant weight. He wasn't that much _bigger,_ but he was denser. Heavier and built more sturdily. He made sure his accent was as thick as it could be when he leaned in to Alfred's ear and kissed it sweetly. “You are so very hard for me, zvyozdochka. Like an eager little boy.”

“You, you like fucking little boys?” Alfred panted, jerking his hips up and forcing his thighs open further. Ivan grinned and squeezed his wrists.

“Are you remembering, zvyozdochka? When you were a little boy?”

Alfred had been little more than a child the first time they'd done this. In the midst of the American Civil War, when he'd been sixteen and conflicted and afraid for the lives of his people he'd sought comfort on the Russian ships, climbing into Ivan's bed and tempting him into sex, solidifying their relationship and making sure that Ivan wouldn't leave when Alfred needed him the most. He'd been just as beautiful then as he was now, blushed and panting and desperate and hating it, desperate for power and control and able only to get it from someone else.

“Ivan,” Alfred hissed, and Ivan sat up to look down at him, at the contrast in their bodies. Alfred was thin with ill health, still hairless on his chin and chest. Ivan, on the other hand, was barrel-chested, sturdy and broad and his body hair, though fine, was thick on his skin. After a moment of thought Ivan let go of Alfred's wrists and watched, unsurprised, as the younger nation reached down between his own legs to give his erection a squeeze, slapping himself against Ivan's firm belly, moving his hips to thrust up against the skin and fine hair.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and Ivan smirked.

“Is that what you want, zvyozdochka,” he asked. “Isn't that what you always want when you come to me?”

“Yeah,” Alfred grinned and it was wicked, wild and feral. “Shit'chyea.”

“Whore,” Ivan accused without much bite, grabbing for the bedside bottle of lubricant. “To think you only come to me when you want to spread your legs. I am surprised at you.”

“Sure you are,” Alfred panted, still stroking himself, shameless and safe in Ivan's room, away from the rest of the world. “You're so fucking disappointed you gotta stick your dick in me ain'tcha, Vahn.”

Such a silly boy, pretending as though he did not want or need this when they both knew that was how he'd ended up here the night before, cold and thin and alone with no escort, Ivan thought as he stroked lubricant over himself and pushed Alfred up against the headboard. The cold bite of the room made Alfred break out into goosebumps. Ivan did not feel the cold as Alfred did, but it was a pleasure to watch him shiver.

“I am never disappointed with you, Alfred,” Ivan murmured as his hands cupped Alfred's backside, spread his cheeks, his thumbs rubbing over his rim. He guided himself with those digits and felt Alfred try to relax beneath him, felt him settle into the mattress as he stroked himself very, very slowly.

The push was hard. Alfred gasped for air, one hand grabbing viciously at the pillow as Ivan moved slowly, felt his body give inch by unbearable inch until Ivan was balls-deep and holding Alfred's hips as the younger nation squirmed and wriggled and moaned in the pleasure-pain of penetration. Ivan licked his lips and felt the pulse of Alfred's heartbeat in time with his frenzied breathing.

“Shit,” he was panting, hands searching for purchase as his hips kept bucking. Ivan watched him closely, felt those hands on his own chest until they settled on his shoulders and Ivan bent obediently as Alfred pulled him down. “Closer,” he breathed, low and secret. “Closer, Vahn.”

Ivan rolled Alfred's body up until the backs of Alfred's thighs were against his chest, knees bent over his shoulders and still, Alfred grabbed the back of his neck, fisted his fingers in Ivan's hair. “Closer,” he demanded. “ _More._ ”

Ivan shoved him against the headboard, pulled up the blankets and swamped them both in darkness and the wet heat of their carbon dioxide as he let his weight drop. Alfred was choking for air between the pressure and loss of oxygen, desperately squirming for a few precious moments before one hand was grabbing at the blanket to pull it down.

Once their heads were free Ivan took a good look at Alfred, pinned beneath him. Pink cheeked, sweating, clutching to him and still bucking his hips up and down helplessly. Alfred was as much a slave to pleasure as he was to pain. God forbid that any other nation discovered this weakness. His eyes were half-open, his lips wet as he jerked between Ivan's body and the bed.

“Vahn shit m'gonna cum, m'gunnacu, fuck, _fuck._ ”

Ivan closed his eyes, felt the wash of pleasure as Alfred's body spasmed and tightened and wetness splattered over his stomach. Alfred twitched and squirmed, whined in the back of his throat and tipped his head back when Ivan pushed a hand under his body and then up to cup around his skull. Alfred was surrounded, held down and he'd cum simply from being entered, from being pinned into submission.

“Ah zvyozdochka,” Ivan hummed in approval. “You may be a whore but at least you are my whore, yes? I do not think there is another who will be doing this to you with only being entered.” Ivan's ability to think and speak in English was failing him, but Alfred's frantic nod was enough confirmation. “Yes, this is what I thought, my little starboy.”

Alfred's blue eyes were bright as Ivan bent to kiss him. They fell closed as Ivan started to thrust. Ivan fisted one hand into Alfred's soft blond hair and held him in place as he moved easily back and forth, in and out to the sound of Alfred's shivering breath.

He wasn't sure how long their coupling lasted. He knew that by the time they were done Alfred was shaking, holding him with arms around his shoulders and legs around his waist, their sweat stinging in the cool air of the room as Ivan whispered into his neck and ear _zvyozdochka, zvyozdochka, my little prince of the stars._

Ivan had always known that Alfred's heart would be his own undoing. Because Alfred loved and hated so intensely, because he'd never managed to find the middle ground of temperance. It was not a strategic relationship between them but _passion,_ a fire which Alfred stoked and added fuel to and Ivan patiently built up and up and up. Perhaps the world would burn around them. Perhaps other countries would slowly turn towards the two of them and realize that the superpowers had their chests to one another and their guns pointed out at the rest of the world over one another's shoulders while they bit and kissed and spoke in hushed tones of violence and sex and vicious love.

Ivan wanted that day to come. Wanted that day when it was he and Alfred against the rest of the world and the nations would quake in fear of the two of them but he was patient. He could wait for the right moment but the moment was not then, as he let Alfred down to the bed and grabbed for a t-shirt from the floor to wipe away cooling semen and sweat.

He slipped free of Alfred's body and chuckled when Alfred groaned. Ivan reached down between the blond's legs to slide fingers inside of him and smirked. “You are being so wet for me,” he said, and Alfred flipped him off without much venom as he breathed and relaxed, melting into the bed even as Ivan fingered him gently. “I like that very much, starboy.”

“I like it when you call me that,” Alfred whispered, looking out into the room and not at Ivan. Ivan hummed—he knew. He knew that Alfred liked to be reminded of their days in space, when the two of them had dreamed together of astronauts and space ships and leaving this puny, pitiful galaxy behind to find what laid beyond what they could see.

“Is it not what you told me, zvyozdochka? That we would build our thrones in the stars where no one else can reach us.”

“Yeah,” Alfred nodded, getting comfortable in the bed when Ivan laid down beside him. They pressed chest to chest and Alfred threw his leg over Ivan's hip. “Yeah, I remember. We promised.”

Ivan knew that his leaders expected him to turn on Alfred at some point. They expected him to kill him in his sleep, to subjugate his people, to take him over and yet somehow the idea of having an equal partner was more thrilling—to have a throne beside a king just as wicked and strong as himself, to be conquerers, to be a pair of monsters, that was the moment he would wait for. He would embrace Alfred's weaknesses until they become strengths, until Alfred relied on him completely. He would erase Arthur from Alfred's mind. He would rid him of all thoughts of other unworthy nations until it was just them and together they would built their castle of stone and bones and stars.

“You will be king. I would set the world on fire for you, my starboy,” Ivan whispered into Alfred's honey-blond hair. There was silence for a moment and then Alfred sat up, just enough to look down at him. There was starlight burning viciously in his eyes.

“I want it to burn, Ivan,” he replied, in a voice so low it was beneath a whisper—the voice of the violent conquerer, the thoughtless savage, the beast Ivan knew lurked beneath the happy face of the hero and the mewling kitten in his bed. It was only one of many facets of Alfred F. Jones, but it was one Ivan adored as Alfred leaned in more closely, so close Ivan could see his own reflection in wide-blown pupils. “I want you to remind the world why they once called you _Ivan the Terrible._ ”

“I know you do, zvyozdochka,” Ivan said, combing his fingers through that soft, greasy hair with affection, exasperation and fierce, fierce pride. There was nothing he wanted more than to show Alfred the full extent of what he was capable of. To know that Alfred would stand beside him in all his wicked, heathen strength. The two of them would become Death. “But we must be patient, yes. It is not yet time.”

The violent monster faded as quickly as it had come, and Alfred nodded like a scolded child, tucking himself down against Ivan's chest. In the dark and the silence Alfred fell still to attempt sleep and Ivan kissed his head, stared out over the room with the thought of revenge in his mind. Revenge on those who had harmed his star prince, on those who attempted to taint him with their influence. They were worthless, they knew nothing. Alfred and Ivan only had one another in this world; there was no one else who could catch up to them. Not Arthur, not Wang Yao. None of them.

“When it is time,” he promised, feeling Alfred tip his head to listen more closely. “When it is time, my prince, I will give you a crown of ice and stars and wolves teeth. I will wrap you in the skin of a bear and you will be my beast-king.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Alfred hissed, forcing himself closer, biting into Ivan's neck. “Again, Vahn, say it again.”

“You will be my king,” Ivan murmured, feeling Alfred spasm with pleasure at the thought, feeling him writhe in hunger and need. That appetite would consume the world, if Ivan could stoke it, tempt it up into a pillar of violence and flame. He could play the long game. He would play it to win.

“All will love me and despair,” Alfred laughed and the sound was wicked, mocking. Ivan grinned into Alfred's honey-blond hair, clenched his fist in it and yanked to force Alfred to look at him. He took in those wild blue eyes and truly loved the feral creature he saw there, just beneath the veneer of sanity and control.

“Yes," he said, and when he bent to kiss Alfred with more teeth than lip or tongue, Alfred pushed up to meet him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i just love the idea that ivan is watching alfred start to spiral and is unwilling to do anything about it, because he's waiting at the end of the tunnel for him and when they walk out of it it's going to be them versus everyone else and, as ivan stated, he's willing to wait to get what he wants.


End file.
